


WC2014: Group Stage

by Kolaflor, nupoxsi



Series: 2014 FIFA World Cup Drabbles & Ficlets [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Authority Figures, Awkward Boners, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Dildos, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Gay, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Propositions, Public Blow Jobs, Public teasing, Sibling Incest, Skinny Dipping, Surprise Sex, Swimming Pools, Teasing, Unrequited Love, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 17,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kolaflor/pseuds/Kolaflor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nupoxsi/pseuds/nupoxsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles and ficlets involving players from different teams, they all take place during the Brazil 2014 World Cup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Robin van Persie/Daley Blind

__ June 13th, 2014  
Group B   
Spain 1:5 Netherlands

 

Daley didn’t know how he’d ended up letting van Persie undress him as he was still cornered against the wall, but he found it impossible to refuse him as he shoved his body to the mattress, not bothering to look for a condom, and soon got his hands all over him to keep Daley in place. They hadn’t kissed, and he understood almost immediately this kind of behaviour wasn’t going to change any time soon; in fact, they hadn’t done much once the captain had showed at his door. Apparently van Persie already got a plan before coming into his room, and whether Daley actually wanted it or not didn’t matter much anymore as he felt his auburn locks sticking to his face as van Persie slammed against him.

“So am I your reward?” Daley teased arching his back to him as the man forced him to lie on his stomach.

Daley couldn’t suppress a small moan from leaving his lips as van Persie started to rock his hips once again.

van Persie’s goal that afternoon had left the man with a sense of superiority no one had been able to tame nor compare to, maybe only by Arjen, but it wasn’t like they would want to spoil it for anyone, they had won their first match against Spain and they weren't gonna be shy about it.

“Shut up, _Blind_ ,” van Persie roared. Daley had no intentions whatsoever to say anything in reply, but van Persie made sure of it by tangling his fingers on Daley's hair and tugging hard at it. “Shut the fuck up.”

“As you wish, _captain_.” Daley smiled faintly as he felt how van Persie’s fingers dug hard on his skin at the mention of the familiar nickname.

van Persie didn’t say anything else for the rest of the night, only hoarse grunts that made Daley wonder if winning all of the upcoming matches meant he’d find van Persie later at his door.

If so, Daley was going to give his all in the pitch so they could guarantee a victory  and have the man knocking on his door once again.


	2. Iker Casillas/Unai Casillas

June 13th, 2014   
Group B   
Spain 1:5 Netherlands

 

“It was my fault,” Iker merely said over the phone. “Five goals, _five_. There’s no one else to blame.”

“It was just the first game, you’re being too hard on yourself.”

His brother didn’t understand, there was no way he could ease up everything and feel okay with the looks everyone gave him at the end of the match; it hadn’t been one goal, but five. Even after going through the statistics and plans knowing that Netherlands were going to give them one hell of a game, 5-1 wasn’t a result he’d ever expect, it felt awful, he felt devastated.

“I wish I could be there.” Iker knew his brother was being honest, that he didn’t just say it to make him feel better. And truth be told, there was nothing he wished more in that moment than Unai to be there. “I hate knowing that you’re feeling like shit and that I’m four thousand three hundred and ninety-some miles away.”

A small yet sad smile drew on Iker’s face. “Did you memorise how much distance there is between Brazil and Spain?”

“Between Bahia and Madrid. I googled it earlier today,” Unai replied. “Sometimes I just like knowing how far we are so I know how much I’d travel for you, even if the answer isn’t as precise as I’d like it to be.”

“I truly wish you could be here right now.”

“I know.”

They went silent for a moment, Iker got lost on his thoughts, doing almost a playback on his mind of each one of the goals, his mind already working on solutions to their mistakes...his mistakes. He heard a door close next to his room, everything was dark already and there wasn’t a single sound where there usually were people cheering and joking around. Iker sighed.

“I’m not even going to ask what time it is, Unai,” he said, knowing the words would sound like what an older brother would commonly say. “So I’m calling it a night.” A moment of silence passed.

“I love you…you know that, right?” Unai mumbled.

“I do,” Iker smiled surprisingly easy. “I love you too, Unai.”

“ _Vale_...so, I’ll call you later.” Unai mumbled. “Oh, and Iker-” his brother called just when he was going to hang up.

“Yes?”

“You’re the best goalkeeper in the world. Never forget it.”

Perhaps Iker thought like the worst football player in the world, but thankfully he had Unai and sometimes it felt as it was the only thing that really mattered.


	3. John Terry/Frank Lampard

June 14th, 2014  
Group D  
England 1:2 Italy

_ Earlier that day. _

 

In retrospect, John should’ve probably just shouted at Frank through the bathroom door instead of getting closer enough to notice the door wasn’t closed. At first he told himself he’d only take a little peek inside, yet he easily found himself staring at the silhouette of Frank’s body visible through the shower’s glass. He had quitted in trying to understand what kind of charm Lampard had on him, it had been almost fifteen years since they had known each other and John still felt as if a football hitted him in the head every time he was near Frank.

As the water stopped running Frank turned around to open the glass door and wrap a white towel around his waist. Their eyes met the moment Frank lifted his head, thin drops of water running from his temples down along his neck.

“John?” He asked, a warm smile on his face. “What’s going on?”

“The lads said we should hurry up if we want to eat breakfast before going to the stadium.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I just need to put some clothes on and I’ll be ready.”

John gave him a small nod. “Great.”

Before he could even think about turning on his heels and exiting the bathroom, Frank took a couple steps closer.

“You could’ve simply come on in,” Frank voiced tenderly. “You know that, don’t you?”

Terry smirked while tilting his head to the side, he could count Frank’s freckles from where he stood if he hadn’t done that countless times already. John leaned to his side grabbing a towel and placing it over Frank’s shoulders so he could dry off his damp hair. Lampard simply smiled closing the space between their bodies, and slowly kissed him.

Their proximity made John suddenly nostalgic, the idea of Frank going away weighed on his stomach in a way it had never done before, this World Cup could be one of the last times they’d be able to together this way, sharing a room, sharing seats on a bus and simply being as carefree as they were now; John felt his eyes prickling with tears as he deepened the kiss holding Lampard close.

After they broke the kiss apart, John pressed his forehead against Frank’s.

It was his way of saying _I’m going to miss you terribly, Lampsy._


	4. Claudio Marchisio/Daniele De Rossi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to be read while listening to this [playlist](http://8tracks.com/chikka/blow) on the background.

June 14th, 2014   
Group D   
England 1:2 Italy

 

“Daniele, wait,” Claudio warned, his breath hot over Daniele’s face. “Not _here_.”

“What’s wrong with _here_?” He asked without caring much for an answer. His hands were holding Claudio’s wrists to keep him from pushing him away. “No one will come in here now. Don’t worry.”

“But—”

Daniele leaned in again claiming Claudio’s lips in a deft kiss; the man leaned back trying to move away from him but responding to the kiss at the same time, Claudio’s tongue tasted of mint.

“You’re fucking nuts,” he mumbled against Daniele’s lips as he returned the kiss still reluctantly.

“I know.”

Claudio wasn’t fighting him anymore, but Daniele could feel how tense he was under his touch. “I truly mean it, you’re insane.”

There was some truth in those words, yet he didn’t care about it. They were at the back of the bus while the rest of the team was probably showering, giving interviews— or fuck knows what; the driver was nowhere to be seen. Daniele didn’t know how long they’d take before people started to get into the bus, but every time his lips met Claudio gave him another reason not to break away from him. Perhaps he was truly insane, but it was all Claudio’s fault.

“Shhh, relax,” Daniele shushed him in reply, letting go of his hands to grab the white headphones around his neck and place them over Claudio’s ears. “Don’t think about anything…" he mumbled, unsure whereas Claudio could hear over the music coming from his headphones.

Daniele got on his knees without thinking too much about it. He was still shaking with adrenaline from the match and Claudio was there, beautiful and perfect, he simply knelt in front of him keeping his hands tight around Claudio’s wrists, and stared at him with hunger. A shadow of concern crossed Claudio’s blue eyes as he discreetly kept checking the front of the bus to see if someone was coming in, after a moment, he simply let his body relax against the back of his seat, eyelids closed shut.

It was as if Marchisio had scored again, a rush of adrenaline went through Daniele’s body as he wasted no time working on Claudio’s shorts and making the man moan loudly as he swirled his tongue around the tip of his cock.

Claudio looked beautiful like that, the blue light coming from the parking lot illuminating sections of his shallow features, his closed eyelids and mouth just slightly open, his head was thrown back against the seat; his adam’s apple bobbing on his throat with every tiny groan and his other hand clutching the armrest.

Claudio’s hand cupped De Rossi’s jaw encouragingly, brushing his thumb along his beard back and forth. Daniele looked up and chuckled at how good was Marchisio at asking for what he wanted. Effectively, Claudio dragged his hand to the back of his head so he could keep working on his cock.

Slowly but surely, Claudio's reluctance from before was crumbling down, even when he couldn't hear himself, he was breathing hard and little moans escaped his lips. It was a good thing that Daniele decided to put those headphones over his ears, because other way he was certain Claudio would have done whatever it took to keep silent, and truth be told Daniele simply loved the way he made the other man squirm every time he put his hands on him.

Claudio's hand clenched at the back of Daniele's neck as his breath became ragged. It was only an incentive to keep on bobbing his head up and down Claudio's cock, enjoying the sounds coming from his mouth. Claudio was amazing that day and Daniele just needed to let him know how much, so he applied the right amount of speed and pressure on his cock until Claudio was reduced to loud moans and trembling muscles.

“You okay?” Daniele asked sitting next to Claudio, moving the headphones back to his neck and caressing his face. Claudio smiled faintly, it seemed as if all the weight of the match had finally won over him.

“Yeah…” Claudio mumbled smiling once again.

After that look on satisfaction on Claudio’s face, Daniele swore he’d never tell Claudio he’d seen Gigi peeking at them from the front of the bus.


	5. Diego Lugano/Diego Forlán

June 14th, 2014  
Group D  
Uruguay 1:3 Costa Rica

 

Losing against Costa Rica was undoubtedly one of the hardest moments in Forlán’s career. Not only it had left a bitter taste in his mouth, but made him incredibly pessimist for the upcoming matches. They were part of what the commentators called the _group of death_ in popular sport talk shows, and already one of the candidates to win the World Cup. Yet there had been something in the way they played that night that simply didn’t click the way it did in trainings previous to the World Cup.

That night they had agreed it wasn’t a time to celebrate. The team and staff were to have their meals at their hotel rooms they were staying at, but Forlán wasn’t particularly hungry, so he’d left an almost full tray of food they’d sent from the reception. Lugano’s tray was also full, but only because his roommate had been taking a shower ever since they’d brought the food into the room.

Forlán was running out of things to do. He’d quit on watching the TV given that most of the sport channels were still talking about their awful defeat against Costa Rica, and the last thing he needed in that moment was hearing what the rest of the world thought about their display. His head was aching, and after taking some pills that hadn’t help him, Forlán was ready to go outside and get some air.

There was no point in taking his phone with him. He didn’t have any wishes to speak with his family or friends, as selfish as it sounded. Forlán got on his feet in no time, muting the TV in some brazilian movies channel as he started to trail towards the door. A fraction of second before he could reach the doorknob, the bathroom’s door flew open, a recently-showered Diego Lugano stepping out. Forlán retrieved his hand from the doorknob immediately, and turned to face Lugano.

“You going somewhere?”

“Nah,” Forlán said carelessly, “I was only heading outside to get some air.”

Lugano was shirtless but had his black sweatpants on, a white towel over his shoulders, and he was drying his still soaking hair as he stepped closer to him. Forlán could see the small drops falling from some wet locks of hair onto his forehead. Once they were close enough, he reached up to brush them away with his thumb.

“They brought your dinner a while ago.” He tilted his head in the tray’s direction.

“There are two trays, _Cacha_ ,” Lugano pointed out in a low voice. “Were you waiting for me or just not hungry?”

“Not hungry.”

A part of him actually felt awful to say those words, but there was no point in lying, not now. Forlán wanted to go outside, but Lugano’s gaze on him felt like an anchor keeping him from walking away, which he didn’t know whether was better or worst.

“The game really got to you, didn’t it?”

Forlán took his gaze off him and stared at his shoes. “Didn’t it get to all of us?”

Normally, Lugano would immediately say something in reply, act like the captain that used to give strength to the whole team during the half time in the dressing room. However, this was more intimate than that. Lugano got closer to him, one of his hands on Forlán’s cheek and the other in the back of his neck. Forlán could practically smell the different lotions and cologne on Lugano’s skin, their closeness something he felt thankful for.

“Last time,” Lugano said softly, and his voice had this thing that simply made Forlán calmer. “Do you remember it?”

“How can I ever forget it? We almost made it to the final.”

He chuckled. “I am aware of that, thank you very much.” Lugano’s hand started to caress the skin of his neck, trailing downwards until it reached his shoulder. “Then you remember we didn’t exactly have the brightest start in the tournament.”

As a matter of fact, they hadn’t. The first game was against France, and despite knowing France wasn’t at his best, it had ended up in a 0-0 draw. Forlán remembered, of course, he remembered having a similar conversation with Lugano back then, and that memory already gave him forces to smile a little as he felt his chest filling with hope.

Forlán didn’t know if it was Lugano’s arms pulling him inwards or he was wrapping himself around Lugano’s still cold and naked torso, yet they were suddenly hugging as strong as they’d done when they won the Copa América three years ago. He placed a peck on Lugano’s neck, mostly because he was short of words, and he didn’t know how to thank him for doing so much for him, for the whole team over the years. Lugano kept his arms around Forlán’s shoulders when he was ready to let go, so he tightened the embrace and allowed himself to be comforted by him.

“We’ll do it, _Cacha,_ ” he muttered into his ear, Forlan grins again at the familiar nickname. “We’ll do it, we’ll give our all, we’ll make it through as we’ve done it before.”

“As we’ve done it before,” Forlán echoed.

“Now, what do you say I put a shirt on and we eat our meals together?”

He didn’t know if it was the way Lugano touched him or the look in his eyes, but Lugano’s words gave him the confidence he really needed.

“You don’t need to put on a shirt to eat something,” he replied with a cheeky smile.

Lugano laughed, and it was such a beautiful sound Forlán would never get tired of. “No shirt, then,” he said to then place a small peck on Forlán’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In here Lugano calls Forlán _'Cacha'_ because one of his nicknames is _'Cachavacha.'_


	6. David Luiz/Bernard

June 16th, 2014  
Group E   
France 3:0 Honduras

 

Bernard didn’t know whether he would be able to watch the second half when he saw David Luiz walking in his direction. Oscar, who had been occupying the seat next to his own during the first half, had been taken away by Neymar with the promise of getting strawberry ice cream, so Bernard was sitting alone waiting for the second half of the France - Honduras.

“ _Heeeeey_ , how you doing?” David Luiz exclaimed as he fell next to Bernard, throwing a long arm around his shoulders. “Enjoying the game?”

“It’s the World Cup! Of course I am,” Bernard exclaimed with a smile.

David Luiz shook him a little as he pulled Bernard closer to him. “Don’t lie to me, that was a boring first half.”

“Yeah, a bit,” he had to admit, but still, nothing beat World Cup games. “Let’s hope they do better this second half,” he added as the players started to get back on the pitch.

“We’ll see,” David Luiz mumbled while smirking at him.

The referee whistled for the second half to begin, so Bernard gave him a small nod and rearranged himself more comfortable as David moved his arm from Bernard’s shoulders and leant lower in his chair as if he was about to fall asleep. A second later, the same hand landed on his thigh startling him a bit.

Bernard turned to see David as he man’s thumb brushed against the fabric of his sweatpants over and over again, nevertheless, the man seemed totally focused on the match. Bernard sat a bit straighter trying to keep it from being awkward, but the action only made David start moving his fingers up and down his thigh in a way that apparently tried to be soothing.

“ _Goooooaaal!_ ” The commentator shouted making Bernard suddenly go back to reality; he had a teammate basically groping him… _in public!_ He simply couldn't understand how David Luiz could be so calm about everything and do something like that with people around, also, he didn't understand why he didn’t just stand up and leave, or simply sit somewhere else.

Bernard tried to ease his mind and enjoy the match. France was starting to play like it was expected of them and Honduras was also giving them a hard time on the middle of the pitch. Perhaps if he managed to ignore the hand on his thigh he’d actually focus on the game. However, since David Luiz seemed to know exactly where to touch and how to, it seemed impossible for him to avoid his friend.

As minutes passed, Bernard noticed how David Luiz’ hand started to move upwards to the band of his sweatpants. The motion made Bernard tense, especially when he felt fingers searching for the drawstring ends, taking it between his fingers once he found them. The dull thought that maybe, just maybe David Luiz didn’t know what he was doing, that he was just numbly trying to keep his mind occupied as they watched the game, crossed Bernard’s mind.

He had almost forgotten about everything but the match, time had passed by without anything relevant happening anywhere when unexpectedly different things happened at the same time; Benzema scored the third goal for France as the entire stadium cheered them and the commentators shouted the goal with an indescribable emotion. David pulled him closer, cheering lightly, and without missing a chance, the man slipped his hand inside Bernard’s pants and let it rest nonchalantly over his lap.

Bernard could feel his cheeks heating up and he did not dare to look at David Luiz’ face. Instead, he chose to focus on the game— which still was at least fifteen minutes away from the final whistle. David Luiz didn’t seem to mind they were around some people, not at all. His fingers kept moving back and forth his thigh, cold fingers against his skin.

They’d been touchy before, in a total different way. David Luiz was always hugging him, placing a hand on top of his thigh, kissing his neck, and most recently David Luiz had made him hold his hand as they were coming out of the bus, but it was never something like _this_. Those were meaningless things compared to having David Luiz’ hand rubbing small circles on the skin of his inner thigh.

It was actually a pretty thrilling situation, _anyone could look around and see them, it would be difficult to explain…_ and with that thought, Bernard shuffled on his seat placing a feet over the juncture of his knee and thigh to try and cover them up a bit. It was not as if Bernard didn’t have feelings for David, he definitely did, but the man trying to reciprocate them in such an inconvenient moment was making Bernard anxious and stupidly aroused. If he hadn’t been interested he would have walked away from his attentions a long time ago…but _this_ , this was messing with Bernard’s will power.

“D-David?” he mumbled while briefly looking at him. His face was a clear mask of desperation and confusion.

“What’s wrong?” David asked, Bernard simply tried to state the obvious only with his eyes as the man went back to rub circles over his skin, this time near one of his hipbones making his breath catch on his throat.

Bernard couldn’t handle it anymore, the teasing had gone through his patience and specially over his astonishment; it had been almost forty five minutes of David teasing him without saying a word, not touching him where he needed it the most, forty five minutes of the most boring match of the World Cup which wouldn’t let him distract his mind from the man undoing his willpower.

For the second time that afternoon, several things happened at the same time; Bernard grabbed David Luiz’s hand to keep it completely still over his groin, a group of people approached them, the match ended and in half a second David was standing up, shaking his hand off Bernard’s grip and swiftly making his way away from the seats.

“Hey!” A voice cheerly called out for him, and Bernard turned to find a happy Neymar staring at him; he had a huge chocolate ice cream starting to melt on his hands. “How was the game?”

Bernard couldn’t hear anything but his own blood pumping hard into his ears, he was still in awe over everything that had happened in such little time. He tried to shift again in his seat, a bit too uncomfortable as Neymar and Oscar stood in front of him.

“It was o-okay, I guess,” he managed to say. “France won.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Oscar exclaimed, his hand over Neymar’s as he led the ice cream to himself and licked. “We ate an ice cone already, then I suggested we should bring one to you, but Ney got hungry on our way back.”

“I got hungry?” Neymar chipped. “You took the first lick!”

“And then you kept eating!”

Bernard wanted to say he didn’t really care for chocolate ice cream, nor who started licking it first. Neymar and Oscar’s voices became a dull noise for him as his eyes spotted David Luiz coming into the hotel once more. Bernard simply couldn’t wait for Neymar and Oscar to go somewhere else so he could find David Luiz. He definitely needed to speak with David Luiz more than ever.


	7. Mats Hummels/Benedikt Höwedes

June 16th, 2014  
Group G   
Germany 4:0 Portugal

_ Before the game _

 

“This is it, man…” Mats exclaimed suddenly too loud and clear. “The World Cup…” He smiled at Benedikt who was checking his backpack.

“Yeah,” he mumbled with a smile briefly flashing his face. “The World Cup.”

Mats knew he was as nervous as him, and it showed in his face. Benedikt has always been more expressive, or at least he’d always been for Mats. It was in the little things; his lips pressed together in a thin line, brow slightly furrowed together and the way his adam’s apple moved every time he looked around them. Mats knew him, and he could practically feel both his excitement and worry about the game, but he also knew how good Benedikt was, what an excellent team they were, so he usually pushed back all of his doubts and trusted in one and each of his teammates.

“We'll do fantastic today.”

“I truly hope so,” Benedikt said softly, grinning just for Mats to see. “It’s going to be an amazing game, and everyone will be proud of us.”

In all honesty, Mats didn’t know whether he said it to himself or if he actually was that cute. Although perhaps it was plainly his cuteness, because when Mats chuckled and stared at Benedikt’s freckles for quite a while, his cheeks gained a slight flush. Hell, Benedikt was surprisingly beautiful when he blushed.

“Yeah, they will,” Mats agreed, merely able to keep himself from pinching one of Benedikt’s freckled cheeks. “And I will be proud of you. I already am, of both of us.”

“Oh, shut it.”

“You know I’m right.” And Mats would actually insist more if it weren’t for Philipp’s sudden claps indicating it was the time for them to start going out already. “Who knows, perhaps we’ll be part of history today,” he added in a low voice so only Benedikt could hear.

Waiting until most of the people exited the place, he decided to stay right by Benedikt’s side, close enough so their shoulders were brushing together and he could still smell the remains of cologne in his skin. Mats felt so blessed to have him by his side in a moment like that one, in one of the biggest moments of his life. He was going to live his first World Cup right beside the person he loved and they were both going to be great.

As the clock on the wall kept ticking, Mats headed to the door right after the last of his teammates came out the double doors, but before he could step out of the place, Benedikt's arm pulled him back into the dressing room, pushing him out of sight.

Mats frowned. “Wha—…”

“Now that you mention it, good luck today…” Benedikt whispered right before wrapping his arms around Mats neck and kissing him. Mats stood very still for a second, knowing that Benedikt wasn't a fan of showing affection in public. In fact, everytime Mats joked around in the dressing room and hugged him for whatever reason it might be, the man would frown and be very quiet about it.

A part of Mats wanted the kiss to last forever, to feel Benedikt close to him with that sudden rush of enthusiasm that ran through both of their bodies, but he knew it couldn’t last forever, he knew they were going to go out there and play the best football they’ve ever had. Eventually Benedikt broke the kiss and smiled. God, that beautiful and pure smile that made Mats’ heart beat faster. He leant in to place a small peck over Mats’ lips before drawing back.

“Let’s make history,” Benedikt said happily.

Mats was staring, and Benedikt winked at him before exiting the dressing room, heading outside to the stadium where the loud crowd was waiting for them.


	8. Juan Mata/Fernando Torres

June 18th, 2014    
Group C    
Spain 0:2 Chile

 

Those three knocks on Fernando’s door weighted down on Juan as heavily as they’ve ever done. To say he felt awful was too little compared to what Fernando must’ve been feeling. All the criticisms, all the fucking press bombarding Fernando after the game had been harsh on him, Juan’d noticed on their way to the hotel room. Still, he decided to come to him after taking a shower.

Fernando opened the door shortly after. The expression on his face revealed a bunch of emotions, but surprise wasn’t included. Juan wanted to wrap his arms around him, be the rock he was accustomed to be, be there for him as many times before and as many times Fernando had been for him. However, Juan simply exchanged a quick look with Fernando on his way in, patting his right shoulder as he slowly walked towards the only bed.

“Hi, Fer,” Juan said as he sat on top of the mattress. His voice sounded tired even as he was trying to sound kind.

“Juan, hey…” Fernando’s words were even less cheerful than the expression on his face. He locked the door and was in front of Juan in no time, sitting beside him on the bed. “You didn’t have to come here.”

“As if I’m letting you alone _tonight._ ” He offered Fernando a sad grin. “Have you forgotten how stubborn I am?”

Fernando smiled back, and his eyes were already watery. “Never.”

After those words, they fell into an icy silence that beared much weight on their shoulders. Juan wanted to say so many things to Fernando, knowing exactly how he’d feel, but it was hard. He missed him so much that even having him so close felt like a dagger digging in his back, and he was certain the sensation was mutual.

“You did what you could,” Juan tried, a bit surprised to find Fernando staring back at him. “At least you tried to help us, yet luck wasn’t on our side.”

Fernando sighed. “We played like rubbish. _I_ was rubbish.”

“Not being at your best doesn’t mean you were rubbish.”

Juan was able to see how old Fernando really looked in that moment. It had taken him time to understand the way Fernando managed to keep himself together after starting his football career when he was just a kid, yet Juan was always able to see how much pain Fernando was hiding than the one he normally allowed himself to show. Perhaps it was an habit of him, Juan remembered how troublesome had been the first time he made Fernando open up to him, how he’d hugged him and gave him all the confidence he needed in that moment. Somehow Juan had been able to gain a very important place by Fernando’s side, and he’d missed that place ever since he left.

“We weren’t ready for the World Cup, Fer, but you’re always going to be the best. And I mean it,” he said with confidence, reaching for Fernando’s clasped hands so his own could cover them. Juan’s hands looked tiny compared to Fernando’s, yet he rubbed small circles over his knuckles as he’d done several times before. “Trust me when I say this loss hurts me as much as it hurts all of us, the ones who’ve worn that jersey at least once. You did the best you could, as all our other teammates, and I knew you tried with all of your strength, Fer.”

“I tried, yes,” Fernando agreed, yet he sounded inexpressive. “It simply wasn’t enough.”

“We are a team, not an only individual.”

“Sometimes being an individual can make a difference.”

Juan chuckled sadly. “I won’t deny that, but you’re not individualist. Stop trying to blame this on you, just stop.”

Something flickered in Fernando’s brown eyes, and then he was pulling Juan towards him, pressing Juan against his warm chest. Instinctively, Juan crossed his arms over his shoulders, keeping him close, breathing in all of his cologne. They both needed this, the closeness, the comfort, the constant reminder that they’d always be close, whatever distance was between them.

“Don’t let this get to you,” Juan whispered into his ear, same words he’d said about two years from now. “Don’t let this bring you down.”

Fernando held him like that, with his head buried deep on Juan’s neck. Perhaps this World Cup was never going away from their memories, but they needed to learn from it, and sooner or later Juan was going to help Fernando realise that. It actually took him forever to let go of the hug, wishing he could change everything and go back to Chelsea, be with Fernando again. His hands settled on those freckled cheeks, and he leaned in to place a kiss on the tip of his nose, which actually made Fernando smile, his arms looping around Juan’s waist again.

“Stay tonight?” Fernando asked softly.

“Always.”


	9. Gerard Piqué/Zlatan Ibrahimovic

June 18th, 2014    
Group C    
Spain 0:2 Chile

Looking back, Gerard never thought he’d feel so sad, the feeling on the hotel was almost unbearable; the worst part was that they would still need to wait another week, after the group phase came to an end, to leave.

Everything was so awful. At least he had been hoping the World Cup would help him to regain his strength, but now he felt weaker than ever. His career at Barcelona was going downhill and practically kept him because there were no more defenses on the reach. If Piqué stopped to think all of the factors that made his life miserable at that moment, he could literally go on for over an hour— the World Cup, the last season with Barcelona, his best friend going to fucking Chelsea— everything felt like a kick in the guts in that moment.

Gerard was staring right at Zlatan standing in front of him, that 6’5” bastard he’d known way too well in the past, there was no need of faking anything, there was no way for it, Piqué felt like shit…and the man was aware of that as well. The squad had decided to stay that night at Rio and leave in the morning; Gerard knew Zlatan was in Rio as well, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when the man had knocked on his door. No one said anything, there was nothing to say, Zlatan simply motioned to the hallway with his head and Gerard followed without further hesitation.

They trailed down the hallway in silence, somewhat impressed that they were the only ones in there. Maybe it was late, but Gerard had lost the notion of time ever since the squad had arrived from the stadium, and, to be honest, time wasn’t the first thing in his head. He barely even glanced at Zlatan in their way to his hotel room, only to make sure that he was there, that he wasn’t an illusion that somehow would go away at any given time.

The place was quite similar to Gerard’s, a single bed in the middle surrounded by a chair, a desk next to a minibar and a large TV facing towards the bed; it was simple, but since it was a one-night place it didn’t need much more. Gerard dragged his feet inside as he could hear Zlatan closing the door behind them.

“You watched the match?” Gerard asked, letting the weight of his body rest against one of the walls.

“Yeah,” Zlatan said patting him softly on the shoulder. “I was there.”

“Then you saw how shitty I played today.”

Zlatan locked the door and moved so he was in front of Gerard, close enough for the first time in months. “Happens to the best of us.”

“No, I mean…it’s just- unbelievable…I can’t even look at anyone without feeling like shit,” he said slamming his hand against the surface of the desk right next to the minibar and not even startling himself when the tiny bottles inside made a faint _clank_. “And there’s the press, I cannot fucking turn the TV on or even check m-my messages without-…” He took a deep breath, he hadn’t felt that guilty and disgusted with himself in such a long time; but this was different, they had won last time, people were expecting lots from them. He couldn’t even bare with the idea of arriving in Spain with their heads low and full of shame. “Fuck, Zlatan, everything is so— _fuck._ ”

“Gerard…”

The next thing Gerard knew was that Zlatan’s arms were pulling him into a hug. It was hard to breathe, hard to brush away all the sadness and disappointment that was left after the game. Yet somehow Zlatan made it easier to get air into his lungs.

“Everything sucks, everything is so awful, and n-now…” Gerard had to stop, he felt he could burst into tears at any second. His voice sounded broken, and he felt so little burying his face on the crook of Zlatan’s neck, he tried to regain his composure back, waiting for his voice to go back to normal. “Now _this_ —”

Gerard got lost in his own words as he tried to breath calmly again.

“It's okay…” Zlatan mumbled tightening his embrace around him. “The Zlatan knows…” his voice was almost a purr on Gerard's ears, nevertheless, there was a hint of sadness in it.

He sighed once again. Zlatan let go off him for a moment, Gerard hadn't felt that need for someone to hold him tight and not let him go in a very long time; he was still processing his last thought when Zlatan's lips brushed against his own startling him.

“Shh, it's okay,” the man whispered over his lips, his nose lightly brushing his cheek.

When Zlatan moved against him once again, Gerard didn't stop him; he realised he didn't want to, he needed the closeness, the reassurance that everything was going to be okay. Zlatan's kiss was soothing, almost chaste over his lips, even when he took the lead, it wasn’t demanding but surprisingly sweet.

Gerard walked away, he felt overwhelmed with feelings, he was sad, annoyed and disappointed of himself. He sat on the bed with his head between his hands trying to push away the tears that menaced to start appearing at the corner of his eyes. The bed sank next to him as Zlatan's thumb caressed his upper back soothingly. Gerard had no clue how long they stayed like that, it seemed like an eternity but he didn't want to move away.

“How is Maxwell, by the way?” Gerard asked all of the sudden. He was trying to push all away, the memories, the emotions, but sometimes he couldn’t. He still remembered Zlatan telling him about Maxwell, remembered the shouts, the punches— all of those flashbacks that never did him any good. “Will you pay him a visit, too?”

“Gerard,” Zlatan’s voice adverted. “Don’t do that. Not now.”

He eyed Zlatan’s face and immediately regretted those words. He was fucking everything up. Again.

“Fuck, Zlatan f— I’m sorry, everything’s just so…”

“Come here,” Zlatan said making some room on the bed and pulling Gerard so he could lay next to him. Gerard felt the man’s arms around him for the second time that evening and they making him feel strangely safe. “Why don’t you try to sleep for a little while? I won’t be going anywhere.”

Gerard kicked his shoes off, they fell to the floor with a soft thud, shortly followed by Zlatan’s. Deep down he knew he could use some rest, but sleeping seemed to be an impossible task at that moment. He shifted in Zlatan’s arms so his back would be pressed against his chest.

“You know about Icarus?” He asked. “Long history short; he flew too high, too close to the sun, his wings melted, and then he died.” Gerard sighed deeply, relieving the end of the match the moment his eyelids dropped. “I believe we also flew too high, we had to get burnt eventually.”

“When you fly too high there’s going to be a time when you’re going to fall down, there’s no exceptions,” Zlatan mumbled, his fingers drawing lines up and down Gerard’s bicep. “The thing about falling, though, is being able to get up again.” He pressed a light kiss on his neck. “You’ll fly again.”

Gerard looked over his shoulder with a quirked eyebrow. “I thought you hated philosophers.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.” he joked.

There was some truth in Zlatan’s words, and Gerard thought about them over and over again as his own breathing matched Zlatan’s. They laid there, no words needed between them, only a comfortable silence that reminded Gerard of many nights a long time ago where everything seemed perfect and full of hope. Gerard fell asleep wishing everything could be as perfect as before.


	10. Diego Lugano/Diego Forlán II

June 19th, 2014    
Group D    
Uruguay 2:1 England

 

Some of the players were shouting their lungs out, others were crying so hard Forlán didn’t get any of the words they had to say. They were at the dressing room, and the environment was similar to one of a post-semi final win. The win against England meant so much more than just three points, and Forlán’s heart wouldn’t stop beating faster ever since the referee gave the final whistle.

Luis Suárez had been crying for over twelve minutes, and Forlán would be lying if he said his eyes didn’t get watery when the smaller man hugged him as if his life depended on him. The emotions were too overwhelming, and Forlán was about to take off his clothes and finally take a shower when he spotted Lugano.

It was as if the whole room froze in that moment so he could find him, always a beam of light among darkness. Lugano was smiling and cheering alongside Muslera, and just by seeing him so happy Forlán couldn’t help but to drop all of his stuff back into his locker and trail towards Lugano. He practically pushed Muslera to a side, taking a mental note on give him an apology later, and threw himself at Lugano for what seemed he 100th time that day.

“You were right,” he breathed into his ear, “we’re gonna make it through.”

Lugano rocked them both lightly. “I told you to believe in ourselves, _Cacha_! We’re still far but it’s one step closer.”

People walked around them celebrating, there was hope again…Forlán felt renewed and happy; he tightened his hug around Lugano’s body, not wanting to let go off him for the rest of their time in Brazil. Lugano shifted, moving his face to a side lightly nuzzling Forlan’s ear.

“Wait for me after everyone’s gone,” Lugano whispered, words that were meant only for Forlán to hear. “And wait alone.”

Forlán couldn’t suppress the smirk from his face as he saw Lugano making his way through some players towards the showers.


	11. Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard

June 20th, 2014   
Group D   
Italy 0:1 Costa Rica

 

That was it.

The World Cup was over for them, was over for Steven. Perhaps he had been expecting too much from Italy, but his captain spirit always told him to keep his hopes up. Perhaps the result would have been the same if Italy had won, but still. Being dependant from another team was one of the worst feelings he’d ever had.

Soon after the match was over, Steven had found himself surrounded by an atmosphere full of sadness and silence. Hart was perhaps the only one still cursing, but the rest of the team had fallen into a dead quietness that made Steven feel somewhat responsible for everything, even if he deep down knew one and each of them were to blame for the result.

He couldn’t bear to answer text messages or talk to his teammates at the moment, it was too powerful and crushing to pick up the cell phone and see it flooding with messages, calls, even mean tweets due to what had happened. It wasn’t the first time it happened and he was too old for that.

It was still early, nevertheless, Steven wanted to call it a night and simply go to sleep for a long while. Maybe in his dreams he’d be able to find some peace. He stared at the ceiling, eyes almost closed and drifting to sleep, he felt tired from the match, from people around telling him how to do his job, and specially tired of their shitty performance ever since they had arrived in Brazil.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, it was dull and irritating, he grabbed it with intentions of turning it off until he read the name on his phone screen.

_Xabi._

“Hi, babe.”

“Stevie.” Xabi sounded polite as ever, and Steven couldn’t believe it hadn’t been even a month since he last saw him. Sometimes years felt like seconds, at other times weeks felt like centuries. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“You got me right in time,” he confessed.

“I’m not even going to ask how are you, I can imagine.”

“Yeah, mate.” Steven sighed as flashbacks of his day went quickly through his mind. “This wasn’t our year, apparently…” Steven tried to make it sound as a joke, but his voice tone wasn’t helping him. “You’re not much better yourself either, I bet.”

“I think everyone hates me for telling the truth. Quite a surprise, isn’t it?” He said with sarcasm. Steven had seen the papers, he felt almost guilty at checking the gossip articles in relation to the matter, it was true that everyone in the team was against him, it was simply awful. He remembered how happy Xabi was at Liverpool, how optimistic he was about everything, and when he left, he took that away with him; now it had simply vanished. “Now that I think about it, I think they’ve hated me from the start.”

“If it helps, I still love you.” It was the best he could say without sounding too cheesy. He could spend hours on the phone trying to cheer Xabi up, as he’d done when the man went to Madrid, tell him how much he’d like to be there and hug him. But those words summed everything up, and he knew Xabi was well aware of that.

Xabi giggled. “Yeah, it does help.”

“So, tell me, when are we gonna see each other?” Steven asked, he wasn’t sure he’d like to know the answer, everything was different from those times at Liverpool, Xabi seemed like a different person, still he could not stop himself from asking.

There was a long silence that, even when they hadn’t seen each other in a long while, it wasn’t as uncomfortable as it could be.

“I’m…I’m spending a couple more weeks here.” Xabi bursted out. “Wanna go grab a drink someday?”

Steven smiled, maybe things would be different this time.

“Yeah.”


	12. Jérôme Boateng/Kevin-Prince Boateng

June 21th, 2014   
Group G   
Germany 2:2 Ghana

 

Maybe Jérôme should have replied the text message Kevin-Prince had sent him minutes after he’d safely arrived to the hotel he was staying at. A part of him was still recovering after the rollercoaster of a match they’d have, and his head was aching massively by the time he heard  the knocks on his door. He knew who it was, he knew far too well of how many crazy things his brother was able to do, but still he let Thomas be the one to open the door.

“Uhm, Boa?” Thomas called him, head peeking front the receiver to search Jérôme’s eye. “I think it’s for you.”

In no time Jérôme got on his feet and moved towards the door, motioning Thomas to go back to his bed. The doorknob felt cold beneath his fingers, and he realised he was actually a bit anxious to see him. Still, he let the door open enough so he could get out through a small gap.

His brother smiled briefly, looking shyly at him. “Hello.”

“Hey…what are you doing here?”

“I texted you, you wouldn’t reply, I wanted to see you,” Kevin-Prince sing-songed. Jérôme knew he was right, but he tried to keep his composure as his brother took a step closer. “The usual.”

“We saw each other at the game,” he replied dryly.

“Are you kidding me?” His brother quirked an eyebrow. “You barely acknowledged I was there.”

“I’m sorry.” It was one of the most honest things he’d ever said to his brother. He was sorry for so many things, yet he’d never known how to say them out loud. Yet that wasn’t the place nor the time to talk about feelings, and that was something Jérôme was certain of. “That was a dick move.”

“It was,” Kevin-Prince pointed out. “But I accept your apologies.”

Jérôme sighed deeply, adjusting the glasses on his nose. “If that’s all you wanted to hear, I’ll go back to my—”

“You know far too well that’s not what I wanted to hear,” his brother chimed in before he got time to say anything else. “Let’s have dinner.”

“Maybe another time, I’m not hungry.”

“Fuck, man— you cannot kiss me and then pretend it didn’t happen,” he whispered somewhat hurt, leaning in as if they were in a crowded place. “You cannot keep avoiding me, I’m your _brother_.” Kevin-Prince backed away but only a little, his face was still distractedly close to Jérôme’s. “All I’m asking is to have grab something to eat with you, Jérôme, is that something so atrocious you can’t even consider it?”

Perhaps Jérôme needed to hear those words, because it was when he stared into his brother’s brown eyes that he realised how much pain he’d caused him in the last couple of months. Kevin-Prince’s expression lacked of his usual spark, and he seemed older than he was. There was no hidden message between his words, just honest and pure sentiment that he’d been ignoring for a stupid realisation after while he had one of the worst hangovers of his entire life.

“I would never pretend it didn’t happen,” Jérôme eventually muttered, eyelids shut close afraid of crumbling down in that moment. “We were drunk, but it happened.”

“Then why the fuck are you avoiding me?”

“We’re _brothers_ ,” he hissed in a low voice.

Kevin-Prince rolled his eyes. “As if I didn’t know that. We need to talk about it eventually, I know you’re aware of that, and I understand if this isn’t the right place to do so, but know one last thing—” He got closer again, his lips partially brushing Jérôme’s earlobe and his breathing hot over his flesh. “I don’t regret it.”

When his brother drew back, Jérôme stared at him as he felt part of him go numb. Kevin-Prince was there, in front of him, just the two of them alone for a change, and he could see so much more than he did that late night when there were too many beers in him. Now his mind was cloudless, and so was his brother’s, so there was nothing to feel ashamed of. At least not while it was only the two of them.

“Chinese or italian?” Jérôme asked with confidence, closing the door shut behind his back and taking a confident step forward.

His brother smirked as he looped an arm on Jérôme’s. “Italian.”


	13. Edin Dzeko/Aleksandar Kolarov

June 21th, 2014   
Group F   
Nigeria 1:0 Bosnia and Herzegovina

 

“Aleks,” a voice said as soon as he pressed the green button of his phone.

It was Edin calling. He hadn’t taken the time to see the name on the screen, but Aleks would recognise Edin’s voice even if it were a thousand leagues away. He was at Matija’s house, along with some other players and friends watching Bosnia’s match against Nigeria. They were all supporting Edin’s National Team, and they had bought enough alcohol to celebrate what they supposed was going to be a victory. Since Bosnia and Herzegovina were officially eliminated, Stevan suggested they’d drink for the loss, and everyone had agreed. Aleks furrowed his brow walking off the living room where Matija and Stevan were still drinking some pints.

“Hello?” he mumbled walking around the corner down the hallway and leaning against the wall still with a beer in his hand. “Edin?”

“A-Aleks.” Edin seemed breathless.

“Is everything ok?” Aleks said holding the phone closer to his ear. “Edin? Are you there?”

A muffled moan came from the other side of the line startling Aleks a bit. He was immediately able to recognise the situation, mostly because he could tell when Edin was aroused. A smirk creep on Aleks face as he subtly took a glimpse at the end of the hallway to see if someone was looking at his direction.

“Y-yeah, good. Everything’s good.”

“I watched the game with the guys, Zeka, and—”

“No, no,” Edin interrupted him before he was able to give a proper comment of the match. “Don’t talk about the match. Anything but the match.”

“Okay.”

“I just wanted t-to hear your voice. _Needed_ to hear your voice.”

Those words actually moved something inside Aleks, and he found himself smiling at the actual sound of _want_ and _urgency_ in Edin’s voice. He was the only person who could make him feel truly happy.  

“I’m here, Edin,” Aleks assured him as his hand found a doorknob. He opened it and got inside the room, not really minding where the fuck he was. “I’m here.”

“God…” there was a prolonged silence from Edin’s side of the line followed by a heavy grunt. “A-Aleks.”

There are few things in the world Aleks loved more than Edin’s voice. In a swift movement, left his beer bottle on top of a wooden shelf next to the door, and moved his hand downward to cup his groin.

His thoughts shifted from that to fully concentrate in Edin’s small grunts and puffs of air, trying to recreate what might be happening at the other end of the line. He unbuttoned his pants and slipped a hand inside letting his head fall against the wall as his cold fingers lingered over his underwear and he stroked himself. An entire evening of drinking had left him feeling entirely reckless. It was impossible not to get turned on by Edin, by the way he whispered his name as if it was the only thing that mattered.

“Are you fingering yourself?” he mumbled hearing how Edin’s breath catches in his throat.

Edin chuckled. “Better.”

Aleks gasped loudly pinching softly the head of his cock over his underwear which now was feeling uncomfortably tight. Aleks remembered. The fucking dildo. He had to bit his lip in order suppress a laugh followed by a grunt.

“Is it-…-” he pressed his body against the wall and lowered his voice. “Is it the one I gave you?”

“Wh-what do to think?” Edin chuckled again. “Of course.” Aleks laughed, finally able to visualise everything in his mind. The memory of Edin's face flushed, eyes closed, his hands between his thighs as the small metal object worked him open made Aleksander slid his hand inside his underwear and stroke his cock faster. “…Aleks?”

"Yes?" Aleks mumbled hearing laughs out in the living room.

“Talk to me— please." There was a hint of sadness hidden under his arousal; it made him want to ditch everyone, fly to Brazil and kiss Edin until he felt happy again. “What are you doing?”

“I’m having a beer right now," he said taking a sip of the cold bottle he’d carried with him and leaving it back where it was. “I’m at Matija's, we were watching the games, Stevan is also here." Aleks smiled hearing how Edin's breath caught on his throat, the man probably thought he was home, and Aleks could almost feel how the realisation he wasn't alone had sent a rush of adrenaline through the man's body.

_“Oh my god.”_

A sudden knock on the door almost made Aleks drop his beer bottle to the wooden floor.

“Aleks? Are you there?" It was Stevan, his voice seemed too loud for the time he had spent talking in whispers. He cleared his throat.

“Yes!” Aleks replied annoyed, hoping for the man to walk away.

“What are you doing?” he man said knocking on the door again. “Do you want another beer?

“Fuck off, Stevan.”

Aleks heard Stevan muttering something, yet he couldn’t quite make up what he’d said, but his voice seemed to be fading as seconds passed, which Aleks guessed meant he was actually going back to the living room. He took it as a cue to let his back relax against the wall again, working on his cock, eyes closed as the image of Edin appeared back in his mind.

“Edin?” he had an idea, it was something he would rather see with his own eyes, but he couldn't deny Edin's such kind of pleasure, especially when the man was feeling so down.

“Yes?”

“Turn it on.”

“Aleks— I d-don’t…” His voice faded and Aleks could picture him biting his lower lip, trying to keep himself together. “You know I’ve never—”

“ _Turn it on_ ,” Aleksandar commanded, voice firm and steady, contrary to Edin’s heavy breathing on the other side of the line. There had been a few months since he had purchased the dildo to Edin, and even when they had used it a couple times, they had never brought themselves to turn it on, in part because Edin was feeling hesitant about it or they simply hadn’t had the necessity to do it, the device by itself had been more than enough. He could tell the moment Edin did as he’d told him, he could sense the change in Edin’s voice, the peculiar rusky moan he gave that went right to Aleks’ boner. “Edin?” he asked after a long moment of silence.

“I-” Edin choked in the middle of the sentence, whispering a curse in bosnian under his breath.  “…here, I’m- ‘re.”

“Shh, it's okay…” He tried to soothe him, didn’t want to rush anything up, but wanting to hear him speak through it. "Does it feels good?"

“‘S not- better than you.”

Aleks had troubles breathing himself, he knew Edin far too well. He could picture his arms covered in goosebumps, his eyes closed and mouth slightly parted as his body would be glistening in a delicate layer of sweat. God, there was absolutely nothing Aleks wished more than to be close to Edin in that very moment. He’d be there, he’d kiss him, his lips, his jawline, the curve of his shoulders— he’d be there to remind Edin just how perfect he was.

“Listen to me…” Aleks tried to clear his mind a bit. “You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met, so beautiful...And that match— just…fuck the ref, fuck everything. You are the best, and you deserved so much better today…and I wish I could be there,” Aleks confessed. “…to say this to you in person.”

“Aleks—” Edin suddenly choked. “I can’t…” his breath became ragged and Aleks knew, he knew the man had gone past the point of no return, he’d been there so many times holding him close, being the responsible for Edin to be in that state; he could picture by memory the expression on Edin's face when he was about to lose it. “-s…to much.” He was panting unevenly now and, for a second, everything went silent, Aleks could only hear himself breathing unsteadily and a faint and almost inaudible buzz from coming other side of the line…a moment after, Edin came with a desperate cry that would have startled Aleks if he hadn't been there to witness it before hand.

Dragged by Edin's moans, Aleks jerked himself roughly, coming with a grunt and slamming his head back against the wall barely moments after him. There were no words now, only uneven breathings through the telephone.

Edin started giggling still breathing hard, it was contagious, Aleks felt himself smiling and chuckling, god, Edin was probably the only person capable of tearing his walls down, of making him laugh whenever he felt like it. Aleks cleared his throat.

"Was I right when I suggested that bringing it with you was going to be a good idea?" Edin simply laughed out loud. "Told you you might find it handy at some point..." the man laughed lowering his voice.

"I love you, you know that, right?" Edin said and Aleks could immediately picture the man's face; his lips were curved into a smile, his eyes almost entirely closed and his hand probably over his eyes.

"I love you too, Zeka."


	14. Ivan Rakitić/Vedran Ćorluka

June 23th, 2014   
Group A   
Mexico 3:1 Croatia

 

Losing had never been as bitter as that night. Ivan had locked himself in his room the moment they went back to the hotel, tired from all the criticism that was thrown at his National Team.

The day seemed to be endless, the hours passed by way too slowly, the same feeling you had when you were right in the middle of a test you didn’t study for. It was terrible, especially when so many eyes were on him due to his signing with FC Barcelona, his name in many commentators’ tongues followed with compliments and insults. Sometimes football could be really unfortunate, and doubtlessly, this time was one of them. Ivan felt tired, his left calf a bit sore from the game, and every time he tried to drink a gulp of water he felt his enormous dizziness.

The sky was finally starting to dark up after hours of waiting, hoping for it to come to an end when there were knocks at his door.

“Yes?” Ivan called from the inside of the room, so mentally exhausted he found the whole traject from his bed to the door quite challenging.

There was another knock, Ivan was too tired to even consider why the person on the other side of the door couldn't answer him. He got up from the softness of his bed to open a crack of the door, without bothering to look through the peephole.

When he opened the door, he found more or less in the same situation as two weeks from now. Vedran was smiling at him as if nothing had happened, a black towel over his shoulders, water falling from his dark locks of hair as tiny drops of water still covered his pale skin. Ivan’s eyes hovered over all of Vedran’s body in a fraction of second, noticing how he was wearing nothing more than a bathing suit that looked dry compared to the rest of his body.

“Hey, we were gathered down at the pool and I was wondering if you wanted to come down with us?” He asked still grinning at him, his grey eyes shining with his usual mischief. “It’s a nice night for a swim.”

Ivan only sighed, shaking his head lightly. He truly couldn't understand how the hell they could keep doing stuff with such normality and simplicity; they had lost the opportunity to go back home with the biggest trophy in their hands, and now they had to wait another four years to get a new chance like that. It was infuriating.

“Come on, man!” Vedran insisted shaking him by the shoulder. “It's not like we have anything else to lose.” _Poor choice of words, Vedran_ , Ivan thought, and it actually made him crack a faint smile as the man kept shaking him. “Are you really gonna make me drag you?”

“Would you?” Ivan chose to joke, because he was tired.

“If I had to, then yes!”

Ivan took a last look at the inside of his bedroom, where the TV was still on and his phone laying on top of the duvet of his bed. He could stay in bed for what was left of the night and see if he could get some decent sleep before heading back to Croatia— if he was going back. He didn’t have a clue what his future was going to be, everything seemed to have taken another curse and he hadn’t anything planned.

“Then I guess I have no other choice,” Ivan said, which put a smile on Vedran’s face.

They walked in silence, eventually meeting each other’s gazes as they made their way to the pool. Vedran had actually a charming smile, but Ivan felt his own cheeks burning when he catched a glimpse of it, so he had to look away when he realised how creepy he’d be. Not that Vedran would really mind, he was one of the most carefree teammates he’d ever have, and he was a nice person.

Outside, the night was hot and sticky, which made him understand why everyone rathered spending their time on the pool than having a long nice walk on the surrounding areas. As they got closer and Ivan was starting to break a sweat, he noticed the players nearby were all naked. However, it was something common now, nothing to be really surprised of.

“Come, let's go inside.” Vedran pulled him closer to the pool. A bunch of teammates were already in there, all of them seemed to have assimilated the loss with such normalcy that almost scared Ivan.

“I don’t really feel like it.”

Vedran threw the towel over one of the empty chairs. “Then why did you come down with me?”

“I’ll be here with you, just somewhere with no water.”

“Don’t be such a killjoy, just enjoy the fucking moment, Ivan.”

“How do you expect me to enjoy the fucking moment when we’ve been eliminated from the World Cup?” He asked, the words sounding even more painful out loud.

“You’re in Brazil with a bunch of funny teammates who want to have a good time. Let yourself go.” Vedran reached to nudge his shoulder. “Come on, just go in with me.”

Perhaps it was Vedran’s eyes or the way he shared his point of view, but in that moment Ivan honestly tried to see the things from a whole perspective. What did he have left to lose, anyway? He had just signed with FC Barcelona, which somehow assured him a bright future if he made a great first performance and it into Luis Enrique’s new coaching style. Which he would try his best to achieve. And yes, they’ve been eliminated, which made him stressed enough to try and find some way to relieve the tension.

“So what do you say?” He finally spoke again, smiling suggestively at Ivan.

“I cannot go in, Vedran, have you forgotten I brought no swimsuit?”

Vedran stared at him for a second clicking his tongue and reaching for Ivan's shirt. “You don't need one,” he mumbled pulling it over his head.

Vedran hooked his fingers on Ivan's shorts and without a warning pulled them down and away from him, startling him. _The sneaky photographers_ , Ivan remembered not letting the man pull his underwear as well and looking at all sides into the darkness of their surroundings just to make sure no one was hiding in the bushes.

The taller man simply laughed throwing Ivan’s clothes to the nearest chair, right over his towel, and without a warning, pushed him towards the pool. The sudden contact of his skin with the fresh water made Ivan shiver slightly. Vedran landed right next to him splashing water everywhere winning a few catcalls from their teammates; he reached the surface and immediately went to a side to pick up a piña colada from the metallic tray that had been left there for them.

“Want one?” Vedran asked taking a sip of his drink, a small foam mustache covering his upper lip and giving him a comical look. He tilted his head in direction to the tray, and Ivan simply nodded his head, keeping on scanning the place.

"You need to chill, man…" Vedran said taking a sip from his drink and leaving it on a side only for his hands to disappear under the water and resurface again with his speedos in them.

"Dude, try to remember what happened the last time you did that," Ivan scolded him, sounding like a concerned mother. “I don’t want to end up in compromising pictures that then go viral on the internet.”

Vedran stared at him with an unamused expression, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth pressed together into a thin line as he shook his head. Then, Vedran simply made a little ball of the piece of cloth and threw it near his towel spraying with water everyone around them.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, Vedran tried to keep a coherent conversation with him, but the match was still too vivid in his mind for Ivan to put his thoughts aside and have a good time. After a while, the rest of the teammates left the pool to go grab something to eat or go sleep early.

“Seriously, man, you need to stop being so uptight.” Vedran laughed splashing Ivan’s face with water. “You’re actually quite cool when your mind isn’t busy over thinking every single situation you find yourself into.”

“Yeah…thanks, I guess.” Ivan thought with a sigh. “I just—…I wish we could— that I could do more for us.”

“Ivan…” Vedran put down his drink on the border of the pool and swam closer to him. “You’re taking too much responsibility over stuff. Yeah, we didn’t made it to the final, it’s a bummer but you can’t overstress yourself over it...we’ll do it better next time,” he said shaking him by the shoulder.

Ivan was half listening to the things he said and half staring at his tattoos, tracing each of their lines with his gaze. Having him particularly close made Ivan blush a little, refusing to look up to meet his eyes. He knew that there was a part of Vedran’s speech that made sense, but still. Maybe he simply wasn’t like the rest of his teammates.

“We still have a couple days off before going back, before actually facing everyone and having to worry and train hard,” Vedran continued. “Can you please, _please_ , stop being a bitch about everything and enjoy the fucking tropical paradise we’re in?” Ivan smiled finally giving up to his own stubbornness and accepting Vedran’s proposal. “See? It ain’t that difficult.” Vedran giggled as he swam on back and away from him.

“Thanks…” Ivan mumbled smiling as well, he felt very lucky of being in the same team as someone like Vedran, the man’s spirit seemed to make everyone around them happy, even after the worst days training under the rain or matches that didn’t go as planned.

“C’mon, man, let go of that silly underwear,” Vedran suddenly bursted out, splashing water at his direction. “You’re making me look like a fool being the only one skinny dipping in here.”

“You know what?” A rush of adrenaline pooled on Ivan’s stomach; he hooked his fingers on the sides of his soaked briefs taking them off. Vedran laughed out loud before hurriedly finishing his drink.

“Toss them out,” he mumbled excited.

“Vedran…” Ivan reproached, after those pictures were taken, he felt a thousand eyes over them all the time.

“Come on, can’t believe you’re getting cold feet,” he said swimming next to him. Ivan was about to say something to defend his honour, but in a swift moment Vedran took Ivan’s underwear from his hands throwing next to his bathingsuit. “See? It wasn’t too hard.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it wasn’t.”

“Now, dear Ivan, try to relax,” Vedran said, and his voice was indeed making him relax. “Tell me about Barcelona, about your teammates at Sevilla, about how much you like that piña colada. Tell me about anything you want.”

“You truly want to hear about it?”

Vedran smiled broadly. “I’d love to.”

And he truly did. Ivan didn’t know for how much he’d ended up talking about all his recent anxiety concerning FC Barcelona, given that they had signed him mostly based on his good performance at the World Cup. Vedran was a good listener, he didn’t interrupt and only gave his opinions after hearing whatever Ivan had to say. All of his opinions were positive and, truth be told, talking with Vedran made him ease some of the burden he was carrying on his shoulders.

After thirty solid minutes of chatting with Vedran and two piña coladas later, Ivan hooked his arms over the border of the pool and looked at the way some palm trees moved right outside the hotel. Recife was truly a tropical paradise and they had to enjoy it before going back home; he was about to turn around and thank Vedran for practically dragging him to the pool that evening when he felt a lingering hand over his ribs, shortly followed by Vedran’s body slowly being pressed against his backside.

“V-Vedran?” Ivan mumbled as the man slowly rubbed his fingers over his side, feeling the line of his cock against him. Vedran shuffled even closer, and out of the sudden started to place little pecks over his shoulder.

“Mmh?” Vedran hummed questioningly placing a single open mouthed kiss right behind his ear.

Ivan's words got caught on his throat as he slightly rocked his hips back; the closeness of Vedran and the faint smell of alcohol on his breath were doing all kind of things to him.

All of the sudden he forgot what we was so sure of wanting to say.

“I—…”

“Why don’t we continue this in my bedroom?” Vedran suggested, lips brushing the back of his earlobe.

Another place, another time, Ivan would have probably just said _no_ faster than a heartbeat and pushed Vedran away. But they were right there, naked in a pool in Recife and the moment couldn’t have been better.

He nodded and mumbled an inaudible _yeah_ that he was sure Vedran would understand.

 

 

 


	15. Luis Suárez/Giorgio Chiellini

June 24th, 2014   
Group D   
Italy 0:1 Uruguay

 

Luis didn’t have to wait for the FIFA to say something about it to know everything was over for him. Everything being, of course, what was left of the tournament. He was down at the hotel’s bar, a half empty glass of rum resting on the surface of the table, right in front of him. The rest of the team was off celebrating their sudden classification to the round of sixteen, although Luis was aware what a bitter celebration it was, and all thanks to him.

He didn’t quite know why he’d done the thing he had, it was as if something took over his body, anger and adrenaline running through his body and urging him to do something to ease his mind. If he shut his eyes and tried really hard, he could still remember that sensation of hyper activeness, of losing his mind for a fraction of second and dooming himself for the rest of his career. Because it wasn’t the first time it happened and he knew they were going to remember that moment for years.

The place was quite nice, though, and he drank was what left of the glass in just a gulp. The burning sensation in his throat felt horribly good, particularly because he needed it. Edinson had offered to stay with him for what was left of the day, but Luis had declined and asked him to join the rest of the squad. He didn’t want anyone to worry about him, he didn’t deserve it.

Perhaps he was too sunk into his own thoughts to realise there was suddenly someone occupying the once empty seat next to him. The last thing he needed was someone from the staff —or worst, _a fan_ — trying to talk some sense into him.

But what truly shocked Luis was to look up from his empty glass of rum to find Giorgio Chiellini staring down at him with a hard face. They stayed in silence for quite a while; Luis didn’t know what to say exactly even when there were a million of questions in the inside of his mind. Giorgio’s brown eyes were sharp as knives; they felt like daggers digging into his skin as the seconds passed.

“Luis,” Giorgio said in a low voice all of the sudden, and Luis got goosebumps just as he met his eyes. “Why?”

He decided to ignore the question.

“What are you doing here?” Luis inquired. “Who told you where I was?”

“After we lost I spoke to Cavani and Forlán and asked them if they’d knew where you’d be later. Apparently your friends know you.”

“You don’t have to be a genius to suspect I’d be here.”

Giorgio didn’t find it funny. “I barely even know you, so trust me when I say I wouldn’t have known where you’d be.”

“Fair enough.” Luis noticed the man behind the bar wasn’t paying attention to them, which was surprisingly weird. “What do you want, Chiellini?”

“An explanation.”

There were plenty of things Luis could say. An apology, maybe, some kind of logical explanation that suddenly would make everything understandable, a promise not to do anything similar ever again. Luis didn’t know which of those Giorgio was truly expecting.

“What if there isn’t one?”

That seemed to amuse him. “There isn’t one? You just bit my shoulder because you felt like it?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Giorgio repeated, voice soaked in disbelief. “Right.”

“Fuck— what do you want me to say, man? That I am sorry? That I wish I hadn’t done it?”

There was a moment of silence after Luis hissed those words with bitterness. Every time he closed his eyes he could feel over a million of eyes on him as they muttered curses under their breaths. He’d shadowed Uruguay’s victory and no one, not even himself would forgive him for it.

“Do you?”

Luis’ eyes find Giorgio’s. “Do I what?”

“Do you wish you hadn’t done it?” Giorgio asked, and before Luis even had time to meditate the answer, he spoke again. “Because if you wanted to bite me you simply had to _ask nicely_.”

His breath was suddenly caught in his throat. Luis’ eyes widened at the suggestion between Giorgio’s words. He’d only had three glasses of rum, so there was no way he was some kind of illusion, and Luis was definitely not imagining it.

“I have a _great_ memory, Suárez, and I remember last year’s Confeds.”

“Nothing happened in last year’s Confeds,” he hurried to say back.

“But something was driving you to do it back then, huh? And that same something was driving you to do it right now.” Giorgio was crossing a line that was better left untouched. “You’ve been waiting to do it ever since, and now you have done it. How do you feel?”

It was all too much for Luis to handle in that moment. Those words were the few things he needed to feel completely overwhelmed. He didn’t know whether Giorgio was teasing him, playing with him or simply had come down at the bar to mock him. The thing was, with the amount of alcohol inside of him along with all the guilt and shame he felt in that moment, Luis felt incredibly remorseful for everything.

“What do you want me to say, man?” Luis finally managed to ask, head starting to ache as his own voice echoed on the inside of his mind. “That I’m sorry for biting your shoulder? For probably missing what is left of the World Cup?”

“I want to know _why_. Why me?”

“I already told you; I don’t know,” he said angrily, because truly, he had no idea, no way to explain. “It’s just-ugh...” How was he supposed to explain things he had no clue about and had been hunting him for a long while now?

“Are you carrying your phone with you?” He asked, and Luis instinctively took it out of his pants’ front pocket, handing it to him without asking anything further. Giorgio didn’t take much with the phone, only tapped his fingers over the touch screen a few times before placing it on the table next to the empty glass. “I added my number. Just give me a call whenever you need to talk about it or if you need to relieve some of the tension gathered on the pitch,” he muttered, his head close to Luis’. “We could always meet after matches if you want us to. You can bite, do whatever you need to if it helps you destress you.”

It took him several seconds to register what Giorgio had just said. _Do whatever you need_. Luis was surprised, and speechless. He’d never dared to think about being with a player before, at least someone who wasn’t Edinson. But he was his best friend and he’d already accepted they were going to stay friends because, as far as he knew, Edinson was into girls. A rush of nostalgia suddenly hit him and he found himself missing Edinson, wishing he could be there, that he would’ve accepted his kind offer. There was nothing to be done now, so Luis simply tried to think about Giorgio’s words. If he had any doubts left on whether he was misunderstanding his intentions, but they disappeared the moment Giorgio winked at him shamelessly.

“I, uh, thank you,” Luis finally replied.

“Yeah, no problem. I hope FIFA doesn’t go too hard on you, you don’t deserve it.”

Giorgio tapped the table with his fingers casually before standing up and patting him on the shoulder.

“Luis,” Giorgio called him before he walked away. “I mean it. Call me, text me, anytime you want.”

Perhaps it wasn’t meant to soothe him as it did, but Luis didn’t really care. He was in need of those words and silently thankful for them. He gave Giorgio a small nod in acknowledgement, he didn’t trust himself enough to say something. The italian nodded back before turning on his heels and walking away from him.

Luis glanced at the clock and realised it was too soon to go back to his room. Edinson was probably still away with the rest of the squad and he didn’t want to be in a room alone with a TV and his cellphone. He stood up from the chair, sober enough so he didn’t need to hold onto anything to make his way from the table to the bar.

Even after their win and the whole mess left by the match and a bunch of players celebrating, the bar was pretty empty, so he sat on a stool trying to avoid putting his mind into what might happen the next day with the FIFA committee.

_Things have to chang_ e, he thought, and asked for a scotch this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminders: here's [a picture](http://img02.mundodeportivo.com/2014/06/25/Luis-Suarez-y-Chiellini-se-las_54410389685_54115221152_960_640.jpg) of Suárez and Chiellini at the confeds 2013 and [another picture](http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02953/portal-chiellini_2953707b.jpg) of what happened in this World Cup. Cheers.


	16. Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard - II

June 24th, 2014   
Group D    
Costa Rica 0:0 England

 

The end of the day was imminent, they knew there was nothing else they could do to keep themselves from being eliminated, not at this point, at least. Nevertheless, their last match had been rubbish, there was no other way to describe it. He wasn't even on the starting eleven, and even when it was sort of a chance not to worry about everything for once, he felt stupidly responsible for the result.

There was no time for silly celebrations, no time for chats or late night FIFA games with close mates, everyone seemed to be at their room minding their own businesses, packing their bags to go back home on wednesday.

Steven was reclined against the pillows watching a lame tv show that claimed to be about sports, but it was basically people who had never played football in their whole lives giving some advice on how to play the damned game, he groaned feeling disgusted by their stupid comments and checked his laptop; Twitter was full of mean tweets and awful news, that 0:0 burning in the back of his mind. This time there was no way, no excuse to avoid calls and text messages, it was over.

A faint and almost inaudible knock on the door took Steven out of his self absorption, making him furrow his brows; he had ordered something to eat about an hour ago, but the empty tray was waiting right outside his door, there was no reason for anyone to disturb him at that time and place. There wasn't a second knock and he seriously thought of simply ignoring it and finally call it a night; however, he stood up and with a sigh opened the door putting his best _what the fuck do you want_ face on.

His expression changed immediately to awe; Xabi was at his door, now Steven understood why he almost hadn't heard the knock, the man’s hands were occupied, a small pint of ice cream in one and a bottle of what it seemed like scotch in the other. Xabi was staring at him with an expression he didn't want to decipher, he probably didn't need to because it was his own; it was calm, sad and specially resigned. He moved to a side as Xabi got in without asking and he closed the door behind them.

A sense of gratitude invaded Gerrard, Xabi was there, he had brought stuff to make him feel better, to comfort him, the man had traveled there when himself was probably feeling like shite just to have this gesture with him. It was perfect, it was enough; he turned around and, without letting him put the things on the night table, pulled him into a tight hug.

“Thought you'd be back on your way to Madrid by now…” Steven mumbled after a long while with his lips brushing over Xabi's neck; he unconsciously wriggled closer feeling Xabi's hands clumsily holding him and the ice cream vase’s coldness strained the back of his shirt.

“Told you I was gonna stay.”

Steven smirked pulling himself off Xabi’s awkward embrace and staring at him, he placed both of his hands on each side of the man’s cheeks. He giggled, it was unbelievable how the man could make Steven instantly feel better. He pulled Xabi into a kiss, not minding if his hands were occupied or not, and hummed; there was a sense of calm that always got over his body when they kissed, Steven couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was, but kissing Xabi was one of the most comforting things in the entire world.

“I brought no spoons,” Xabi muttered over his lips as they broke the kiss, handing him the bottle.

"Don't worry, love," Gerrard said with a little smile as he took a sip directly from the bottle and walking backwards towards the bed. "We'll manage."


	17. Leo Messi/Kun Agüero

June 25th, 2014    
Group F   
Nigeria 2:3 Argentina

 

They had made it as first of the group winning three games. Nine points that they had earnt with effort and without even daring to think on giving up. Leo knew he should be celebrating his fourth goal in the whole tournament, but it was impossible. Kun’s injury wouldn’t make him feel at ease with the way things were going. Not only it meant a significative loss for Argentina for the fuck knew how long, but it was Kun. _His Kun_. The one who had promised he was going to give his all in the game against Nigeria as a birthday present— let alone score a goal as a gift to him. Sometimes fate simply didn’t work in the ways they needed it to.

In a way, it was Leo the one who’d ended up dedicating both of his goals to Kun. And Kun knew that, had known it since Leo rushed through a mass of football players in the dressing room just to check on him with a hurt expression on his face. His hands had barely left Kun after the match ended, knowing he was acting like a mother. He didn’t care, he needed to be with Kun, he needed Kun to be with him. Leo was hopeful the injury wouldn’t be so bad, he wanted Kun to be alright, needed him to be alongside him on the field.

Kun was coming out of the bathroom, already wearing his pyjamas. They’d taken turns to shower, only because Kun said he needed to call his mother to let her know he was okay. At other time, they probably would have showered together as they’d done several times before. Still checking something meaningless in his phone, Leo barely eyed him as he put some of his personal things on the night table, supposing Kun would crawl into the bed next to him. However, much to his surprise, the next time Leo glanced at his side, he found Kun undoing the other bed and getting under the covers without saying a single word.

There wasn’t nothing much to be done. Leo turned his phone off and left it on top of his bed’s duvet. The lights were still on, so Leo got up and made his job to turn the rest of the lights off. In the darkness and with his heart still aching, he reached the other side of Kun’s bed, where he sat. A part of him actually questioned whether Kun was seeking for solitude or not, yet he didn’t tell Leo to go away when he pushed back the sheets to settle down next to him. Leo snuggled closer to him, chest pressing against Kun’s back, jaw fitting right in the crook of his neck. Kun’s hair smelled of shampoo mixed with his cologne, and some of his soaked strands of hair wetted Leo’s cheek.

“Hey,” Leo mumbled softly.

“Hey.”

“How are you feeling?”

Kun clicked his tongue. “It hurts a little if I move it too fast, but it’s bearable. Tomorrow they’ll run more tests and hopefully it won’t be too awful.”

“I am so sorry this had to happen to you. I…I just feel horrible.”

“It’s not your fault, Leo, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

In truth, Leo understood what Kun meant, but he still couldn’t shake off the hollow feeling inside of him. “I am, though. You are my teammate, my best friend, _my everything_ , so of course I am sorry for your injury.” He pressed his lips over the fresh skin of Kun’s neck, hoping it’ll make him feel a bit better. “It just doesn’t feel right to be wearing the albiceleste and not having you by my side,” Leo confessed.

“You’re my everything too, Leo,” Kun said after a little while, looking over his shoulder to smile at him, hugging Leo’s arm closed to his chest. “You know that, don’t you?”

“You’ll recover soon,” he promised as he kept pressing light kisses on Kun’s neck. “We’ll make it through, both of us. I will help you.”

Kun laced their fingers together. “You already do.”


	18. Olivier Giroud/Mathieu Valbuena

25th June, 2014   
Group E   
Ecuador 0:0 France

 

Olivier rolled to a side letting his back rest against the pillows, his breath was uneven same  as Mathieu’s next to him. They had classified to the next round and a big celebration was imminent, specially before the hard trainings of the next few days before they'd have to face Nigeria. A long silence only filled with pants, heavy breathings and the faint smell of sex filled the bedroom.

“We're through, man…” Mathieu mumbled. “I can’t believe it.”

He giggled rolling to his side and staring up at him. Olivier knew exactly what he meant. They were group favourites, which put an extra pressure on them. Despite the game didn’t go as they had expected it to, it gave them the point they needed to assure their pass to the next round. Mathieu’s cheeks were still flushed, as well as his neck, a thin layer of sweat covering both of their bodies.

“Told you we would…” Olivier said stretching his arm from under the smaller man to ruffle his hair. “This is our year.”

“I bet you’ll score in the final.”

Olivier could see the laughter in his brown eyes. “If I play like today, I really doubt that.”

“Oh, shut it,” Mathieu exclaimed digging an elbow into his ribs. “You barely played but your work on the pitch was noticeable. You are a brilliant player. And so am I.”

“That’s something I can’t deny.”

“See? I am right and you know it.”

He chuckled. “Maybe you are.”

“In case I am, will you dedicate the goal that you’ll score in the final to me?”

Letting his head fall to a side, Olivier leaned closer until his lips met Mathieu’s, kissing him lightly and paused. He’d lost count of how many times he’d kissed him that night, but he sure as hell wasn’t getting tired. Mathieu smiled over his lips shortly after Olivier was drawing back.

“I will,” he replied. “I like that you’re looking forward and we’ve only moved to the next round.”

“Speaking of rounds…” Mathieu ghosted his fingers over Olivier's navel giving him a wicked smile. “Up for another one?” he asked moving himself up so their faces were at the same level and giving him another sweet kiss. Olivier laughed out loud returning the kiss and instantly placing himself on top of Mathieu’s small body. His hands travelled over his sides, fingertips caressing his skin back and forth. Mathieu giggled as Olivier started to kiss his neck.

“You don’t really have to ask.”


	19. Iker Casillas/David Beckham

June 26th, 2014    
Group G    
Ghana 1:2 Portugal

 

Everything had gone from bad to worse. What were the odds of their flight being struck by a lightning, especially after a shameful performance at the World Cup? Iker felt like trash, his headache was slowly turning into migraine as he watched the last minutes of the Ghana - Portugal on the TV. He was only watching for his Real Madrid teammates, the rest of the tournament wasn’t vital for him, not anymore. He was proud of Cristiano for at least keeping everything together after so many critics, sometimes he didn’t know how his friend managed to be okay with that.

His attention was shortly deviated from the match as he heard an expensive car parking on the outside. The voice of the commentators was muted by the loud sound of a door being closed, followed by some footsteps walking their way to the house. Iker might or might have not broken —although technically he hadn’t broken in, he still had a key— into David's apartment in London. There was no way for him to stay in Madrid, not after everything that had happened in the past two weeks. Iker missed his house, his family, his friends, but it was impossible to look at them in the eye without feeling incredibly guilty.

“Iker?” David’s voice asked from somewhere behind Iker’s back.

Without a doubt, David knew he was there. Iker didn’t have to give any kind of response, he bet David had known since he parked the car outside. They had developed a thousand ways of communicating with each other over the years, especially when they didn't want to be understood by anyone else, that worked perfectly in the field, as well as it did, of course, in their personal life. Iker would usually arrive his place before him and move something in the entrance so the man would know he was already there; it changed with the years, they kept doing it as their _relationship_ faded.

Time had passed by and David was still as handsome as ever, same old voice that made his heart slow down a couple of paces. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in Madrid by now.”

Iker looked at him from where he had seated and all the weight from the last weeks fell on him like raindrops. All of the sudden everything felt _too_ real, the loss, the shame, seeing his teammates, some of those who were never going to play again in a World Cup, and it was all his fault. Iker covered his face with his hands and finally sobbed.

David's footsteps quickly approaching to the sofa became louder and clearer, the house keys dangling on his hands as he knelt in front of him as his hands smoothed over Iker's upper arms in reassurance.

“Shh, shh, it's okay,” David mumbled sliding a hand over his neck trying to pull Iker's face off his own hands. “Do you want me to go make you some tea?”

“‘s not ok-kay…” The words seemed to get caught in his throat. Talking was too painful and looking at him was painful and— _God_ , what was he thinking when he choose to come there? Iker pushed David away and curled into a ball over the sofa as the man sat next to him. “It’s never gon-…na be okay…it was my responsibility.”

“No tea, then…” David joked as he pulled Iker into a warm embrace. David smelled of a different cologne, it was probably due to publicity, but there still was that smell, _David’s smell_ under all of that that quickly comforted Iker. He didn’t want to think, the man’s hug gave him memories of happier times, and he sobbed again.

“Please,” Iker begged as he tilted his head and kissed the border of David’s mouth, tasting the red wine from his lips. “Just— _please_ , don’t push me away, not now.” It had been so long, David was probably dating someone, or _someones_ , but Iker simply couldn’t think straight. He wanted David, he needed David.

He hated how fucking vulnerable those words made him look, but he truly needed David right now, he needed him more than ever. Perhaps it was that desperation mixed with weakness that made David actually give into the kiss, his hands settling on Iker’s shoulders, back, waist, arse, everywhere he wanted to.

He didn’t want to have a chat about the game, about how awful everything was at the moment, he just needed to feel and forget about everything else.

“I need you to remind me who I am,” Iker said between kisses, unbuttoning David’s shirt nimbly, urging him to take it off. “ _Make me_ remember who I am, David.”

Perhaps David didn’t love him anymore, but Iker didn’t really care. He still felt like the first day and David still made his heart slow down a couple of paces. After he left, David hadn’t refused him, not even once. And this time wasn’t the exception. David kissed him, hungrily, making him feel like truly belonged somewhere, right in David’s arms.

Neither of them would mention a word about it when Iker left for Madrid in the morning.


	20. Philipp Lahm/Bastian Schweinsteiger

June 26th, 2014   
Group G   
USA 0:1 Germany

 

The win against USA had finally given them the chance to breathe properly after days of considering what new tactics they could be able to use against Klinsmann’s team and what changes in the line-up could work in their favour. After all, they had worked it out and won with Thomas’ brilliant goal, assuring their pass to the round of eighteen.

They were all gathered in a room watching the highlights of the day, eating some healthy snacks as Per had suggested. He sat next to Miro, whose grin wouldn’t leave his face for the rest of the day. The man was too happy for making it to the next round, and being around him helped Philipp with his mood. Most of the players, even those who stayed in bench, were in a indisputable good mood, grinning and chanting songs as they watched the USA – Germany highlights.

One of the players who were happier than a basket full of puppies was Bastian. Not only he’d been smiling the whole way back to the hotel, but he’d been the one who’d kept the team fully motivated and with their hopes ups, which is something Philipp truly values and adores about him, considering their history after 2006 and 2010. It was usual Bastian, that player who wouldn’t give up for anything in the world.

Even now that he had all the reasons in the world to be smiling as the rest of the team, to be celebrating they were part of the sixteen teams that still had a chance to win the golden trophy, Philipp found it impossible to feel truly happy. He couldn’t fix his eyes on the television screen, not mattering how hard he tried, his eyes kept following Bastian around the room, heart slowly sinking deeper every time he unwittingly found Bastian’s arms around Lukas, or vice versa. The grins, looks, touches and all the other intimate moments the two of them shared were something different, and it was no secret, at least not for Philipp.

The more he stared at him, the more his heart shattered.

“Hey, Philipp.” Miro’s voice made him blink repeatedly as straightened himself against the back of his chair. “Were you paying attention?”

He didn’t even have the energy to force a smile, so he simply sighed in resignation. “No, Miro, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Miro said dismissively. “Wasn’t important anyway.”

Philipp gave him a small nod, he didn’t want to make up a lame excuse, he knew Miro was smarter than to believe in a dull lie. With a heavy heart, his eyes went back to settle on Bastian. The image he saw wasn’t unexpected, Bastian’s head resting on Lukas’ shoulder as they both commented on the match. Something about it bothered Philipp, even if he knew it lacked of common sense, was that closeness between them because it reminded him of the way Bastian treated him on a daily basis. Bastian always wanted him by his side unless Lukas was there.

“You’re still falling for him,” Miro commented softly, casually taking a sip from his orange as if  they were chatting about the weather. “I don’t judge you for it, nor I blame you, but you need to stop yourself from keep doing that, Philipp, it will do you no good.”

And he could say, _yeah, I know, but what else can I do?_ _I love him, I’ve loved him for years_ , but Philipp decided to remain silent. There was nothing he could do about it, so there was nothing left to say.

“What was the thing you were talking about? Algeria’s defense?” Philipp deviated the subject, and despite Miro shot him a sort of reproachful look, they spoke about it for the rest of the evening.


End file.
